


Black Fingerless Glove

by WretchedArtifact



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Awkward Sexual Situations, Finger Sucking, First Kiss, M/M, Post-Canon, Secret Crush
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-07
Updated: 2020-10-07
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:54:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26854774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WretchedArtifact/pseuds/WretchedArtifact
Summary: As Yuri and Otabek get ready to performWelcome to the Madnessfor a second time, their rehearsal hits an unexpected snag.
Relationships: Otabek Altin/Yuri Plisetsky
Comments: 5
Kudos: 124
Collections: Writing Rainbow Black





	Black Fingerless Glove

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Soulstoned](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Soulstoned/gifts).



The competitive skating season was officially over, and Yuri had never tried poutine before, so Otabek drove them to a diner that was open late and they ordered a serving to share. The face Yuri made at the sight of the gravy-drenched fries was hilariously conflicted. “That looks disgusting,” he said, jabbing his fork into the greasy pile. He took a bite and chewed. “Ew, you actually like this shit? It’s fucking gross.”

Three minutes later, they’d devoured the entire plateful, and Yuri got up to order another one. He had a smear of gravy on his chin, and Otabek stopped him for a second to wipe it away with a napkin. “Thanks,” Yuri said, and when he went up to the counter, Otabek watched him go with a low exhilaration in his stomach. Yuri was a notoriously prickly person—anyone who touched him without permission risked losing an arm in the process—and Otabek was still getting used to the way Yuri’s spikes retracted inward when the two of them were alone together. Before they became friends, Otabek had seen maybe three pictures of Yuri where he was actually smiling, but Yuri smiled all the time when it was just the two of them. He was smiling when he sat back down at the table, his fingers already greasy from stealing a gravy-drenched fry off the top of the new plate. “I can’t tell if I like it, or if I just haven’t had decent junk food in months,” Yuri said, chewing.

“Probably both,” Otabek said. “The restaurant near my old rink made better poutine than this, though. It was the one thing that could make JJ cheat on his competition diet.”

Yuri’s face screwed up into a horrible expression at the mention of JJ’s name. “Come on,” Otabek said. “You can afford to feel sorry for JJ tonight.”

JJ had missed the podium at the World Championships earlier that day, making several errors in front of a crestfallen Canadian crowd. Yuri, on the other hand, had taken silver. “I’m not about to feel sorry for that cocky asshole,” Yuri said. “You know next season he’s going to be back to calling himself the king of all skating.”

Otabek wasn’t particularly bothered by JJ’s cocky attitude—when they trained together in Canada, Otabek had seen the hints of insecurity that hid underneath JJ’s boasts—but he also knew it was pointless to try and argue Yuri out of his rage. “Anyway, the competition’s over,” Otabek said. “I’m looking forward to having a clean slate next season, too.”

Otabek had come in fourth that evening—which would have stung more if he hadn’t found himself within three points of beating Victor Nikiforov for bronze. Even though Victor wasn’t at the top of his game after taking half a season off, he was still an excellent skater, and the fact that Otabek’s score was so close had lit a fire in his stomach for next season.

“You should’ve been on the podium,” Yuri said vehemently, stabbing his fork into the pile of fries. “That judging was a shitshow. Victor was completely overscored.”

It wasn’t true, but Otabek still liked being the beneficiary of Yuri’s outraged loyalty. “Let’s just focus on stealing the spotlight away from him and the other Yuuri at the gala tomorrow,” Otabek said.

Yuri grinned, a cocky twist on the corner of his mouth. “Hell yeah!” he said.

It took them five minutes to polish off the second plate of fries, and then the two of them climbed onto Otabek’s rented motorcycle and headed back to the hotel. Otabek’s heartbeat kicked up as fast as the engine did when Yuri put his arms around him, holding onto Otabek way more closely than he had back in Barcelona. Otabek had driven his friends around on the back of his bike all the time back in Kazakhstan, but none of them had ever made his blood churn through his veins like that. He would’ve been embarrassed if he thought Yuri had any clue what he was feeling. 

But he was pretty sure Yuri didn’t. Yuri had admitted before that he didn’t have experience with dating or relationships, and so he never seemed to recognize why Otabek sometimes got flustered in Yuri’s presence. Otabek knew, too, that Yuri didn’t have many friends outside of his rinkmates—which meant he needed a steady friend in his life way more than he needed another person gazing at him longingly, the way his starry-eyed fans always did. Otabek had only known Yuri properly for a few months, but he was already determined to be the kind of steady, reliable friend that Yuri deserved.

If only his heart and gut would get the message.

When they got back to Yuri’s hotel room, Yuri got out his notebook and Otabek got out his MP3 player, and the two of them set to work on figuring out _Welcome to the Madness 2.0_. Otabek had spent some time redoing the mix on the song, making the bass even heavier than it was before, and Yuri listened to it through Otabek’s headphones with a look of obvious satisfaction on his face. “This is gonna be so fucking good,” Yuri said. “Did you see the version I did of it at Europeans? It was shit without you there.”

“I thought it was fine,” Otabek said. “The choreography you added to fill in my part was seamless.”

A little flush formed on the side of Yuri’s neck. Otabek thought it was strange that Yuri could be so confident about his own skill on the ice but still have trouble taking a compliment. “Yeah, well, I liked the original better,” Yuri said. “And so did the audience. So I know they’re gonna love this one.”

When Otabek joined Yuri for his exhibition skate back in Barcelona, it had been so last-minute that it was a miracle they pulled it off at all. Yuri had seen that glove-biting move in a music video, and they only had time to practice it once before they had to go out on the ice. This time, though, Yuri wanted Otabek's part to be a little more involved. “So at fifty seconds in, you come out and start skating around the edge of the rink, like you’re tracking me,” Yuri said. He sketched out an oval to represent the rink and showed Otabek the movement in chunky ballpoint lines. “I’ll meet you right here”—a vigorous pen circle—“and we’ll both stop short at the same time. I was thinking maybe this time, instead of throwing my sunglasses into the crowd, I could put them on your face. It would make you look even cooler if you bit off my glove wearing sunglasses.”

“That part moves pretty fast, though,” Otabek said. “It would be less cool if you stabbed me in the eye on accident.”

Yuri winced instinctively. “Yeah, okay,” he said. “Why mess with what works, right? Everyone thought the glove scene was awesome the way it was.”

Otabek would be lying if he said he hadn’t gone back and rewatched that part of the video several times over the last few months. In the moment, that sequence had gone by so fast that Otabek could only remember feeling relieved that he hadn’t bitten Yuri’s finger off. But with the benefit of the pause button, Otabek could zero in on that still frame where Yuri’s arm was outstreched, his finger partway into Otabek’s mouth, Otabek’s teeth closing down on the black material of his fingerless glove. It was cool-looking—the pose, the lighting, their outfits—but Otabek didn’t spend so much time looking at that still frame just because he thought it looked _cool._

“You wanna practice it again?” Yuri asked. He got up from the cramped hotel table and started digging through a suitcase on the floor. “I actually had to get new gloves. The stitching on the last pair came apart.”

Yuri found the black gloves and slipped them on, wiggling his fingers experimentally. “Do they feel different?” Otabek asked.

“They’re kinda thicker than the last pair.”

The last time they had practiced the glove bite, it had been in a dark corner of the rink, literal minutes before Yuri went out to skate. It felt way more awkward for the two of them to practice it standing in the middle of Yuri’s cramped hotel room with all the lights on. Otabek got to his feet, and with a rush of nervous inspiration he unplugged his headphones from his MP3 player and pressed play. _Welcome to the Madness_ started up, tinny but loud enough to fill the awkward silence.

Yuri grinned, bobbing his head up and down to it for a second. “Okay,” he said. “Pull off one glove and bite off the other one, right?”

“Right.”

Yuri struck a pose, flinging his arm out towards Otabek. Otabek pulled the first glove easily off his hand. Yuri turned away from him, tossed a look over his shoulder, and flung his other arm back toward Otabek, right at face-level.

Otabek didn’t let himself think about how intimate a gesture it was. He leaned forward, maneuvered his open mouth around Yuri’s finger, and bit down on the glove with a toss of his neck.

The glove didn’t come off. His teeth squeaked against the material and then raked backward over Yuri’s bare finger. “Ow!” Yuri said, more surprised than pained.

Oh _shit,_ that was embarrassing. “Sorry,” Otabek said, his face hot.

“No, no, it’s okay,” Yuri said. That flush was back on the side of his neck again. “That’s why we’re practicing it, right? Let’s do it again.”

He bobbed his head up and down to the music again, then when the beat was right he flung his arm back out towards Otabek. Otabek leaned forward again, the thin heat of Yuri’s finger slipping between his lips, and he bit down more carefully this time. His teeth dug into the black material with another spine-shivering _squeak._

The glove didn’t move. Otabek gave one tug, two tugs, feeling idiotically like a dog with a chew toy. Finally he had to admit defeat. “It’s, uh, not working,” he said as he pulled back.

“This stupid thing is probably on too tight,” Yuri said, and he took the glove off and started stretching out the finger holes. The flush on his neck had crept up to his face now, surprisingly dark. “Just give me a second.”

When Yuri slipped the stretched-out glove back onto his hand, Otabek felt real trepidation and nervousness in his stomach. Otabek wasn’t usually the kind of person who got rattled by a challenge, but he didn’t know if he could take the embarrassment of a third failure. “Okay,” Yuri said, and he sounded a little nervous, too. “Let’s try it again.”

He paused, caught the beat, and flung his arm out. Otabek leaned forward, teeth closing determinedly over the glove, and he gave it a tug. It didn’t budge. He pushed his head forward a little bit, taking more of Yuri’s finger into his mouth, like maybe he’d get better leverage that way. He pulled again, hard. Still nothing.

With a spike of embarrassed frustration, Otabek closed his mouth around Yuri’s finger and _sucked_. He felt the pad of Yuri’s finger twitch against his tongue as the material of the glove slid forward a little. It gave his teeth the grip they needed, and Otabek tossed his neck back with relief and finally yanked the glove free.

The realization of what he’d done only hit him when he saw Yuri standing there flummoxed, his arm still outstretched in mid-air. His pointer finger was still wet from Otabek’s mouth. “Uh,” Yuri said.

Oh _shit_. Why the fuck had he done that? “Sorry,” Otabek blurted out. “I thought the suction would help.”

“Uh, yeah,” Yuri said. He didn’t look mad, or even grossed out—he just looked kind of baffled. He rotated his palm up and held it out to Otabek. “Let’s, uh—let’s try it again, I guess.”

Otabek gave back the glove and watched as Yuri slowly pulled it back on. Oh fuck, had Otabek just crossed a line? Yuri’s body language was completely different now. When Yuri started bobbing his head to get back into _Welcome to the Madness’s_ beat, he wasn’t smiling anymore, and when he moved his arm toward Otabek, it wasn’t with the dramatic, artistic fling he’d used the last three times. Yuri’s hand hovered in front of Otabek’s mouth with uncharacteristic hesitation.

Otabek leaned in, bit down against the material of the glove, and _prayed._ He pulled back on it.

It didn’t move.

Again. Nothing. _Again._ Nothing.

He flicked his eyes up at Yuri, not sure what to do. Yuri’s face was flushed and his mouth was slightly open, and for a few seconds they just stared at each other.

Then Yuri gave a tiny nod.

Otabek sucked down on Yuri’s finger, hard. This time he was paying attention to every facet of the experience: the way his wet mouth molded around Yuri’s finger, the involuntary pressure of Yuri’s fingertip on the back of his tongue. He felt the material of the glove bunch up, ready for his teeth, but this time when Otabek bit down and pulled back, he did it slower. The pad of Yuri’s finger dragged a rough line down the center of his tongue before finally the glove came free.

Yuri’s arm hovered in the air for a few more seconds, then fell back to his side. He stood there blinking at Otabek for a long moment. “Uh,” Yuri said finally. “Yeah. Okay. We’ll just...do that tomorrow, I guess.” He wet his lips with his tongue. “In front of everyone. On television.”

Otabek didn’t know what to say. The tension in the air was starting to squeeze down around him, and after a few seconds it started to make him feel sick. All of Yuri’s easy grins and laughter had been erased by this weird, uncomfortable _thing_ Otabek had just done, and he had no idea how to get that easiness back. “Yuri,” Otabek said, his voice rusty with embarrassment. “I’m—”

Yuri moved forward, his ungloved hands gripping the front of Otabek’s t-shirt, and he pulled Otabek into him with a sharp jerk of his arms. Their mouths met with a surprising crash. The word _sorry_ stalled and died on Otabek’s tongue as Yuri’s tongue eagerly took its place, prodding and dragging against the inside of his mouth. As kisses went, it was kind of wet and messy, but it was also somehow _mindblowing_. Because Yuri was the one doing it, with hungry enthusiasm, like Otabek’s mouth was made of salt and sugar after a long season of eating nothing but salad.

When they broke apart, panting, Otabek realized he had grabbed onto Yuri’s shirt without realizing. He couldn’t seem to make his fingers unfold to let it go. “That was okay, right?” Yuri asked. His face, so close to Otabek’s, had an unfamiliar expression on it: earnestness, eagerness, and below it an almost imperceptible hesitation, like he thought Otabek might say no.

Like Otabek’s heart and gut would ever let him say _no_.

“Yes,” Otabek said, and he saw the smile return to Yuri’s face. The twist on the corner of his mouth was almost triumphant, like he had gotten away with something he wasn’t supposed to have.

Otabek dragged Yuri back in and let him have it.


End file.
